


Admiration

by Ten Reasons For Nothing (PrussianLlamaCat)



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: F/M, I have not written fanfiction in forever, this really sucks I apologize, was interesting to write i'll give you that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 19:46:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5510687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrussianLlamaCat/pseuds/Ten%20Reasons%20For%20Nothing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They admire each other from afar. Then the world fell apart, and they somehow managed to find each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Admiration

**Author's Note:**

> Secret Santa for my roleplay group! As... it's rather early, I suppose, I won't say anything more, other than it's been... how long? Since I've written fanfiction, and it's been forever since I've written two canon characters just... talking about each other. Narrating about each other. I personally write Naegi, but I know shit about Kirigiri, and it probably shows, haha. This is really bad. The end in particular sucks so much ass I want to cry, honestly. But I tried, and... it was an interesting write, I'll give you that. I had fun, too, and I hope my Secret Santa (who I won't yet reveal) likes it! And you, too, hopefully, random reader. Enjoy.

           He admires her from afar.

He's always wondered, why he's even here. Fate. Destiny. Luck, perhaps; it's what his transcript here says, after all. For him, it's always been a sort of joke— knows he's just got a knack for tripping into the least likely of possibilities, for having the odds always in his favor, whether it be good or bad. He's always been called lucky— has always considered himself that way, in some way or another— but he's never thought of it much of an actual, tangible talent: not like being good at sports, or being good or school, or being good at computers, all of which he considers himself simply average at.

Average. That seems like a more fitting word for him. Average at this, average at that— he's never excelled in anything, nor has he ever failed in anything. Maybe it's stupid to say that maybe it'd be nicer to fail; sure, it's failing, but at least it's something to notice. Everyone sees the excelling. Everyone sees the failures. But no one sees the average. The normal. The _boring._

The school he's been admitted to hasn't changed that, regardless of what the Headmaster says. Regardless of what the others say. Regardless of this title "Super High School Level Luckster" says. They've worked hard, to get these titles— to be Novelist and Baseball Player and Idol and Swimmer— and he?

He just won a _raffle._

(And maybe the fact that "Luckster" isn't exactly a word— and a bit of a ridiculous one in that— doesn't help much in that regard, either.)

But he sees _her,_ and he's everything he isn't.

She's stoic, cool, utterly expressionless as she walks up and down the hall in her freshly-pressed coat and tie. Radiates a cold, steady severity, working diligently and quickly: wastes no time and no breath in her work, like a humming machine, a living and breathing being of efficiency and perfection.

Super High School Level Detective; the perfect unity of effort and talent and ethic. Effort in her diligence. Talent in her quick eye. Ethic in her keenness for the truth and nothing but the truth, unswayed by distractions and fickle things. No one knows why she wears those gloves, exactly, but he sees it as a sign of experience. Because you can't be the best detective of your age by being soft (like him). Earned her own way to the top— probably has the experiences and the tribulations tucked under her belt, to prove that, to show she's truly earned it. Even made it a point, that she earned her way into the school through her own merits, without the help of her father the Headmaster. She stands her own, makes it her own. Is entirely her own, and he admires her for that.

He sees her isolation, though; how she chills the ice around her, silently and subtly pulls herself away— and he blinks at it, twice, and smiles and extends a hand. No one deserves to be so lonely. So cold. Sure, it's helpful, maybe nice— distances distractions, keeps a clear head, but there's nothing like a close band of good friends. Of some people to confide to.

She looks surprised, whenever he offers to sit by her at lunch or to be her partner in group class assignments, and even if she sometimes quietly turns him down he never gives up. Sits down right by her, patiently, and lets her open up in her own terms, and even if it takes a while he stays where he is. Listens. Does what he can, to the best of his abilities, as a friend. The closest she'll see him as a friend, anyway.

And, slowly by surely, he sees her open up— 

and he smiles back.

 

 

 

 

She doesn't know what to think of him, at first.

He is a spot of gray in a canvas of weaving, neon colors. A breath of something different, in the pulsating world of talents and quirks and uniqueness, where its people thrive on competition and contests and shows and being number one, the winner— where no one passes it off being the best for anything less. She can't blame them for that; it's why they're here, after all. How they came, after all. She cannot take that away from them, at least. But she never quite thought she'd think something so _normal_ — someone so _average_ — as something of interest, but she sees him, and finds something...

different.

It's a bit of an oxymoron; a contradiction, if you will, and she's always lived for the contradictions. All the inconsistencies in life. It's what breathes life into living, into existing— the world, after all, is not the perfected machine some make it out to be. There are imperfections. Dents. Little broken parts. Inconsistencies, both in people and in nature, but it is with people she works with, finds the inconsistencies in— and she likes to say that, ultimately, is really what makes people interesting. Conflicts, both with and within, plague the human psyche, and some debate whether it be for good or for bad: she believes it's simply how it is.

And he is certainly something different— a curious inconsistency— in the world that is Hope's Peak Academy.

She first sees him in the hallways, sporting his trying-too-hard fashion style and almost painfully average brand bag she suspects is from the local supermarket, and she would've almost dismissed him if it wasn't for how out of place he was— for how he smiled, nervously, but regardless waved warmly at passersby who either talked hushed amongst themselves or utterly alone. She, too, was walking alone, and she blinked at him, astonished, like so many of the others as he greeted her with a nod, a small chirped, "Hello."

She sees him more, afterwards— in her classes, now, as the Super High School Luckster, drawing himself hushed whispers and curious sidelong glances, and despite herself she finds herself joining, too. He's always smiling, and it's warmly, sweetly, and she doesn't know what to think, of that. Strikes something foreign in her, and she doesn't like that, so she finds herself turning away.

But he comes; sits by her, sometimes, offers to help when they both know she really doesn't. She detects another oxymoron— she wants to ignore him, but feels a draw to him. Can't stand him (reminds her of too much, of the past she's left behind, and how the past is nothing but dead and cursed mistakes), but she can't help but look at him, feeling that ringing inside her, again and again. Can't talk to him, but desperately wants to. Feels like he's nothing but a fool— being so free, so open— but sees something in him she feels she's missed. So she hesitates— and then reaches back.

But his openness. How he confides too much, trusts too much. Believes too much in the good of people. She frowns at it, small; remembers, again, and she desperately hopes that he sheds that childish naivety of  a weakness, too, before it's too late.

 

 

 

 

It's in trial Kirigiri Kyouko remembers.

Her father. The headmaster. His promise, for his school, for his students. How he was torn away, how all his efforts were for naught and that _she's_ here, snared them all deep in her trap littered with the corpses of her fallen fellow students— her _friends_ — and how all her effort has been for _nothing_ , how the demon's still won this terrible gambit and it was all for nothing, lead them all astray thinking that they've had a chance before blowing it all fantastically all in their faces, shoving down their throats how it was all truly _for absolutely nothing_ — 

Kirigiri once swore that she'd never let emotions get the best of her, ever again. Now they sweep her up and far, far away in a terrible, black torrent of pounding fear, trembling horror— 

utter, complete despair.

She's not the only one; sees her classmates, clutching the bench, eyes shadowed and darting like the cornered beasts they are. She isn't surprised; is what she assumed, faintly, in the middle of all of this. Not that it matters, anyway.

But— 

He's still there. He's still here.

Naegi Makoto stands his ground— despite this— despite _everything_ — and Kirigiri doesn't even see a flicker in his eyes as he plants his two feet, thrusts his words forward in retaliation— in offence— in the name of those who died, those who lived and stand by him— 

In the name of hope.

Kirigiri never thought she'd ever think something so cliche, but the past few days here have certainly changed her way of thinking.

Drags them all out of the darkness in a flash of light, the fervent faith that they won't give into the false allures of the gilded cage where they'd all live in the name of survival, too afraid to venture out into the world poisoned with the despair they've only had a taste of, in here— can't stand any more of it, so they huddle together, sacrifice a life just for the sake of surviving, for not dying. But Naegi stands for freedom— for the hope of a better tomorrow, because if the world outside is truly infected by despair, then its antithesis— hope— can infect, too: infest the people with a new purpose, a new chance, to try and work for a better future, a better tomorrow, regardless of how bad today may seem.

And as he works his miracles— strikes Enoshima down, despite all the odds, despite how _impossible_ it should've been— 

Kirigiri suspects it's not just his luck, working here.

And she admires him.

 

 

 

 

"Naegi," she says, after it's all over.

"Kirigiri-san," he greets in turn with another one of those smiles— and she can't help but smile back, and she raises a hand when he speaks.

"There's no need for the formalities," she says, softly. "We've known each other for long enough to acknowledge the other without any honorifics... don't you think?"

"R— Really?" He blinks, astonished, before he breaks into a small embarrassed chuckle, turning away and rubbing furiously at the back of his neck. "Well, then, uh— just Kirigiri? So then— I guess we really are friends now."

"Friends." Kirigiri blinks at the word, tasting it roll over her tongue. Hasn't used it, truely, in a while, but she likes the sound of it. "I think it's a bit late, but, yes, friends." She laughs a little herself, too, and crosses her arms at him. "Especially after that little stunt you just pulled off."

"It was nothing." It's that little humbling thing people like him always seem to say, but from him Kirigiri knows it's genuine. "It was... the right thing to do, you know? I couldn't just— just let her pull you all into that. Seeing you all like that... I couldn't stand there and do nothing."

"Naegi. Not everyone would've done that."

"But it was the right thing to do!"

"Yes, but regardless— it's hard to distance yourself like that. To confide in others, especially in times like these." She pauses. "...that kind of trust is hard to come across. THis mutual killing game, with the loss of friends and loved ones... it's almost impossible to really trust anyone. To find that kind of hope, anymore. Frankly, if it weren't for you... I'm not sure what would've happened. It's... an admirable quality of yours. Try not to lose it."

"It's really not that hard." Naegi smiles, softly. "Besides, I really can't say it's all just me."

"What do you mean?"

"You really helped me in those trials, Kirigiri. I— I'm not experienced. At all." He laughs, lightly. " You... also helped me with Maizono's death. I— I was torn over it, you know. I... I've never experienced loss like that, before. I didn't know what to do, but— you showed me how to keep going, even when the time goes rough. That times'll always get rough, and that people can change but... people don't have to completely change. You showed me first hand that I can still trust people. Don't you remember?"

Naegi pauses, and then smiles, again; takes her hands in his, and holds them close. "You can't say it's all me. You helped me so much, Kirigiri, and— I don't know if I can say all the ways you have, but I'm so, so grateful. And— we're a team, remember? We help each other. We have each other's backs. We don't take credit on our own; we do it together. As a team."

"As friends?" Kirigiri says, almost automatically, and however cheesy it may sound she finds herself chuckling, a little.

"As friends...?" He looks astonished at that, for a moment, before he breaks into a wide grin— laughs, high and chiming, and nods. "Yes! As friends."

 


End file.
